


Against Flaking Paint and Rugged Concrete

by WillowGrove



Category: Sherlock (TV), StartUp (TV), StartUp - Fandom
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, M/M, Masturbation, Mild Painplay, Mindfuck, Pining, bdsm feels, bdsm undertones, sad wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-07
Updated: 2016-09-07
Packaged: 2018-08-13 15:22:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7981399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WillowGrove/pseuds/WillowGrove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He realized it now. That that man with the wire grip on his neck had reminded him of John. Or rather, that John had --  perhaps always -- reminded him of that other man, of that one encounter. And wasn't that an unsettling thought. An unsettling and thrilling thought, if his body was asked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Against Flaking Paint and Rugged Concrete

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mysleepyhead](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysleepyhead/gifts), [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Please note that this is indeed kinky and does not reflect healthy sex habits so please heed the tags.
> 
> Inspired by a [prompt](http://love-in-mind-palace.tumblr.com/post/150061719301/guys-i-had-a-dream-of-phil-rask-and-shezza-going) by @love-in-mind-palace on Tumblr.
> 
> For @love-in-mind-palace and @sweeter-than-cynicism.
> 
> No beta. Looking for one, though, so please contact me if interested. Especially in need for grammar advice etc and britpick.

  
  
He had been young then, different. Not that he was that much older now but since meeting John he felt he'd aged years. In weariness yes, because yes -- all the longing, all the ache, all the regret, that surely had aged him years. But mostly because of all that he'd gained, the new way of experiencing the world: more colourful, more alive, more... feeling. More John. All these experiences, these memories, good and bad, during these few years, surely they built a lifetime.

It had been in another lifetime certainly, but not that long ago really, only perhaps a year before John had walked into that lab at Bart's. He'd not realized it then, at Bart's, but now, remembering John's livid stony rage at the underground carriage and the twitching of his face into that angry emotionless hint of a smile, the connection had suddenly clicked. _“You cock!”_ Yes, he'd seen that before. That man with the wire grip on his neck. That man with the white crisp shirt and the sophisticated cologne. That man with the casual menacing stance and the unspoken threats and the unyielding blue eyes. All the terrifyingly unpredictable in him.

That man with the fucking gun on his fucking holster in plain sight while he had fucking fucked him against a dirty wall in the crack house. He realized it now. That that man with the wire grip on his neck had reminded him of John. Or rather, that John had -- perhaps always -- reminded him of that other man, of that one encounter. And wasn't that an unsettling thought. An unsettling and thrilling thought, if his body was asked. And when did his body not demand to be asked? As of late his body seemed to be both asking and answering all the questions. Why, damn it, did this always happen when he most needed to analyse, when he needed to put his thoughts in order to figure out what to do with -- John. Of course it was John. It was always John.

He couldn't think. His hand had already sneaked under the waistband of his trousers and he realized he was sweating. He could remember the cologne and the dried sweat in his nostrils, the rustle of the coarse fabric in his ears and on his skin. He'd been wearing just his T-shirt and his sweatpants, he'd even been barefoot and how crazy had he been ever to let himself so affected that he'd let his guard down so badly. Never again. Only...

Oh, god.

He'd been hauled against the wall so fast, and he'd struggled and snarled but that had had absolutely no effect. Even though the man had been a head shorter and clearly jet lagged. But then he had also had those iron wrists -- he could still see them vividly – veins popping as he had slammed his palms against the wall on either side of him, bang, caging him in. And those, oh fuck, he had had those solid staunch thighs, and hips... against his own, pushing, punishing, fast.

Oh no, he needed to take this slower, in sequence, bit by bit or he'd be spent in minutes. His hand was already gripping his length too tight and he forced himself to ease a little, to breathe.

He'd been surprised and even a bit scared first and then, and then he'd not cared any more. Because that voice had been in his ear, that creamy distinct American accent, that thrill of the harsh line of the holster against the side of his bum, his own bare feet on the cold floor, his own utter vulnerability and the shock of being manhandled. Damn it, his head was still spinning in mere remembrance of that forceful rush inside him. He had never been aroused like that before, hell, he probably had never even been aroused, point blank, so potent had it felt then, like an entirely new experience.

And had he only ever noticed John because subliminally he'd reminded him of that other man, that American agent who'd ruined him against a wall in a shambled crack house? And wasn't that a forbidden, murky thought which only fuelled his arousal and his hand was now sliding faster and harsher over his cock again. His cock that was on fire, thick and heavy and wanting. He couldn't not think about how then, against that rough wall... His arms had been raw from the scraping for days afterwards, from when the man with that glorious temper had suddenly yanked his hips back and his arms had braced against the wall, sliding down and his skin had scraped so badly he'd yelled. But he'd perhaps not yelled because of the burned skin after all, but because of the burning touch of those rough fingers gripping his hips, and his loose sweatpants that had been pulled uncaringly down and his legs that had been spread by two impatient trouser clad knees. And dear god, his own feet bare and dirty and those clean, stiff shoes that poked them wider and wider and then settled between them, like that was their god given place and they would not be moved even by a herd of angry bulls.

His cock, then, angry too, had hung heavy and twitching and alone between his legs. He'd felt it's weight as it swung back and forth in sync with the grunts of the solid body behind him. It had been weeping and aching and desperate, but he'd been unable to reach it as he'd used all his available wits into leaning against the wall, not falling over, not crumbling into a heap of quivering pants.

He could hear those American grunts now, distinct, determined, not so much involuntary gasps as forced efficient encouragements for his actions. He himself had not made a sound or at least he couldn't remember, he was always mostly silent as he... like now. But god, he was not silent now, was he? His breathing was audible and there was a keening in his throat, tears running from his eyes. Why were there always tears threatening behind his eyelids when he thought of John? Because he _was_ thinking of John. He was thinking of how he would have given anything for that imaginary assailant behind him to be John. But it wasn't John, it was that other John, that fantasy John, that perfect, strong, wise John, always there, the debilitatingly scary presence ruling over him, over his mind and his body.

So yes, all right, he was whimpering now. And he had to admit, he had probably been whimpering then too. Small desperate, feline sounds deep in his throat, involuntary, unnoticed. But the American had probably heard them, he'd been so in control, so in charge. He'd heard them and smiled that horrible placating fake smile of his at each and every whimper and whine and keening gasp he'd pulled out of him. Yes, he'd heard it all and smiled, thrusting harsher, deeper, grunting with an ever increasing staccato.

And damn it all as he had to pull his hand out of his pants now because, fuck it, his hand was cramping and fuck it he needed it back there NOW but the belt would not open and he almost laughed because wasn't he fumbling now just like he'd been fumbling then, trying to keep standing upright, trying to get decent support from the wall, trying and failing to understand what the hell was going on.

He had his trousers open now and he pushed them down, his hands trembling and his pants cutting a painful line under his buttocks where they were bunched as he tried convulsively to spread his legs against them. But that only made it sweeter and his cock, oh god his cock was gloriously free now, jutting up and both his hands were there in a flash, one fondling his wet balls and the other sliding over and over and over and... over, oh god.

For a second he lifted his hands away again and whimpered and squirmed as he felt the cold air against his genitals. Just like they had been then, free and exposed and naked and so very very much hoping for a touch, any tough. And that obscene thrill he'd felt later, when he'd been brutally pushed closer to the wall again. That crippling fear of being pushed too tightly against that wall, that harsh rugged concrete and the flaking paint and his tender pink flushed flesh so so close. His mind had reeled with every single push, his breath had caught with every pull back and his heart had thumped and thumped in his throat because he was pinned, unable to move, unable to prevent it from happening. And his panic had flared again and again and again but in the end he had been unable, unwilling to react in any way because the apprehension, the thrill, it all had been so tantalisingly frightening and so undeniably and so utterly arousing.

And then that smooth harsh man had leaned in, reaching to push his chest against his upper back and he'd whispered "Afraid for your dirty little cock, are you?" and with those words he'd spilled and spilled and spilled and his semen had pulsed fast and unheeded in powerful spurts covering the peeling paint and the rugged concrete in strips of white slimy shame.

In his mind the words played over and over again as he got stuck to that one perfect moment, trying desperately to find his release now. _Your dirty little cock, your dirty little cock, your cock._ He imagined that those words were not pronounced in that round American but in the lighter, more sweet, but not one bit more innocent voice of another man. And then he heard that voice again loud and clear -- and angry, so heart flutteringly angry. _"You cock!"_

And there he was, he was falling over the brink now and spurting and pulsing and his whole body locked into one long agonising arch of hope and regret and forbidden yearnings.

And then he was lost to the world for a while, just like he'd been lost to the world then. When he had opened his eyes again to the bleak grey evening light of the crack house, the American had been already gone and he had been alone. He did not need to open his eyes now to know that he still was.

**Author's Note:**

> And now I think there is an obvious call for another ficlet for what happens after "Oh, hello, John! Didn't expect to see you here. Come for me, too?" in His Last Vow...
> 
> Oh, and sorry if there is something not quite right with Phil Raks, only watched the first episode of StartUp so far.


End file.
